one end of the quay, mumbling sea chanteys and passing a wine flask back and forth. Ringil went past them at a limping trot, got a tipsy salutation from one, hurriedly shushed by his more circumspect or just more sober companions. Farther along, in the puddle of shadow cast by the customhouse wall, he caught the grunts and glottal clicking sounds of some sailor getting a cheap blow job. He thought he saw a queue of figures waiting there in the gloom.
Eril was draped at the rail of the Marsh Queen s Favor, smoking a krinzanz twig. He straightened when he saw Ringil approaching, pitched the twig into the gap between ship and wharf, and came down the gangplank with a grin. Ringil raised a hand to keep him back. Shook his head.
Better stay where you are.
Eril s smile dropped off his face. He glanced about the darkened wharf, seeking enemies.
Trouble? he asked quietly.
You could say that. Ringil was fascinated to discover that what he felt most was an obscure embarrassment. You d better tell the captain to get his crew together and slip ropes. Time for a smuggler s exit.
And our other passenger?
They re calling a plague quarantine on the city, Eril. You don t get out of here right now, they ll lock the whole harbor up and your ride out of here as well.
Plague? For perhaps the second time ever in their acquaintance, Ringil saw genuine fear in Eril s eyes.
Yeah. Seems some of the slaves had it.
The Brotherhood enforcer made the connection. The fear in his expression shifted into something else.
You.
Yeah. Looks like it.
Silence stretched between them like distance, as if the gangplank were already up and the Marsh Queen s Favor drifting from the shore. Ringil made himself grin, guessed it must look pretty awful. Eril cleared his throat.
I had a great-uncle in Parashal, got it back in twenty-eight. They say he lived.
Ringil nodded. Everybody had an uncle somewhere who d survived the plague in some other place or time. It was a bedside platitude, cheap comfort you could hand out like some threadbare blanket you weren t going to miss.
Sure, he said. It can be done.
In Majak lands, Egar had once told him, you could cheat the plague of its victim if the tribe could find read, in the constant tribal ruck of the steppes, capture alive in battle a suitable substitute to sacrifice in place of the original sufferer. Given a man or woman of comparable rank and blood, the hovering plague spirit would take the offered life instead and depart with it. The original sufferer didn t just recover, they came back stronger than they had ever been before. Often they would rise to become tribal leaders or shamans in their own right. Such recoveries apparently took place overnight sometimes, if the shaman had the Dwellers favor, before the planned sacrifice had even been carried through.
Nice trick if you can pull it.
My debt, Eril began.
Is hereby canceled. I asked you to help me throw a burning brand into Etterkal, and we did that pretty effectively. I m all done murdering slavers for now.
The Brotherhood enforcer could not quite keep the relief from soaking into his features. He made an uncharacteristically awkward gesture.
I, uh, I sold the horses.
Good. Get anything halfway decent for them?
Eril shook his head, overvehemently. Got fucked in the arse. Barely three hundred apiece and that s including the tackle. Fucking landlord s going to double his money just by sleeping on it. Here.
He dug a purse out of his coat, took a half step forward on his way to hand it over, and then remembered. He stopped dead on the gangplank. Ringil nodded, lifted one open hand toward him.
Sokay. I m not too far gone to catch stuff.
Eril hesitated, then tossed the purse across the intervening gap. A good, hard throw, to make sure it cleared the edge of the wharf. The weight and impact stung in the cup of Ringil s palm.
The two of them stood there looking at each other.
What will you do? the enforcer asked him finally.
Ringil weighed the purse in his hand. I don t know. Get drunk, maybe. Don t you worry about me, Eril. You need to turn around and put your foot in that captain s arse. Get some sail hoist while you still can.
He turned away then, because the temptation of the gangplank s sea-rotted edge where it rested on the wharf was getting a little too much to resist. Marsh Queen s Favor sat there, four feet out from the quay, and the urge to cross that symbolic gap to safety was like krinzanz craving. Give himself any longer, and he d do it, he d start trying to talk his way into coming aboard regardless, rationalize his way past the obvious fucking shape of this particular truth, tell the tawdry fucking lies to himself that everybody did, Look, this isn t plague, it s just a bad cold, be over it in a couple of days with some sea air to clear your head, you ll
Like that.
He grimaced. You could already hear the pleading tone of it all.
He walked away.
Got about three paces before Eril called after him.
Sire?
He stopped. Blinked at the honorific. In the best part of eight months, he d never heard Eril use it to anyone. He turned back.
Yeah?
I, uh, wanted to say. All that shit they say about you? The corruptor-of-youth stuff, the queer thing. Just wanted to say. I always knew they were a bunch of lying fucks. Knew it wasn t true. You re no faggot. He swallowed. Sire.
Ringil remembered the times he d caught himself staring with something worse than longing at Eril s exposed arse and shanks when they bathed in rivers on the way south. The hollow ache that stalked behind the lust.
He found the smile once more. Put it on.
You neither, Eril. You neither. We re true men, the both of us. Now get out of here while you can. Go home. Fare well.
He put the gangplank and the Marsh Queen s Favor at his back again, and this time he kept walking.
CHAPTER 18
Then they got up close to the black looming mass of the lock gates, the boatman shipped oars and threw out the anchor. It made a soft, swallowing plop as it went down. The boat tugged about silently on the dark flow of the river; the anchor cord went taut and held them.
That s it, gents. S as far as I go.
You could get us a bit closer to the shore, Egar suggested.
The boatman shook his head. More than my hull s worth. The Citadel posted guards around the temple on that side months ago. See the torches? They catch me at this time of night with you two muffled up like that, well Folk are liable to draw conclusions, aren t they?
He gave them an amiable grin to show he d already drawn his own conclusions but hey, no hard feelings, we all got to make a living somehow.
So, Harath hissed at him. You saying we gotta fucking swim across there?
Well, if you really want to, I suppose you could, yes. The boatman jerked a thumb back over his shoulder.
But there s a ladder, back there on the lock gate. It s a bit of a jump, but you should make it all right.
Egar waited to see if Harath could make the leap turned out he could, and with wiry, youthful poise now he
